


heart in the trenches, head in the heavens

by blackkat



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [120]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon is the Bad Ending, Dimension Travel, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 12:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15949478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: The madman wearing Madara's face laughs, presses a hand to Hashirama’s chest where the yukata is falling open. A seal blooms beneath his fingertips, stark black against his bare skin, and Madara snarls a denial, leaps for him only to pull up short when Hashirama chokes, legs giving way again. He crumples to the ground with a sound of pain, shaking, and Madara tumbles down next to him, hauling him up, trying to make out the seal through a haze of panic. He’s already lost Izuna; if Hashirama disappears from the world as well, if Madara is left on his own in the shards of their dream—“I’d forgotten how pathetic I used to be,” his double says, derisive.





	heart in the trenches, head in the heavens

Hashirama smiles at him the moment he opens his eyes.

It makes Madara swallow, makes his heart turn over in his chest in a way that it hasn’t done in years, and he reaches out without even thinking about it, cups Hashirama’s cheek with fingers more used to holding a kunai. Hashirama hums, catching his wrist and tugging gently, and Madara snorts in amusement, but he leans down to kiss him gently, a bare slant of lips in the morning sunlight.

“Good morning,” Hashirama says as they separate, still smiling, soft eyes heavy-lidded. He looks like every quiet dream Madara has ever had, and it stings somewhere behind Madara's eyes, and he curls his fingers into Hashirama’s long braid, stroking the silk-soft strands with his thumb.

“Good morning,” he answers, sliding his hand up Hashirama’s bare skin, over his chest, presses his palm over the steady beat of Hashirama’s heart. All too easy to remember Hashirama ready to kill himself at Madara's order, even though it was months ago now, and Madara breathes out, rough and slow, and can't help but lean in to kiss Hashirama again. Hashirama answers it readily, presses up into Madara's mouth like he can't imagine anything better than kissing him, and Madara laughs as they part again.

“Didn’t you get enough of that last night?” he needles, though he can't quite make himself let go, either.

“Never,” Hashirama says warmly, and sits up, that braid of dark hair sliding forward over his shoulder. Madara catches it, tugs the tie loose, and Hashirama watches him unwind the strands without protest. Madara can't help but let his fingers drag over sleek hair and warm skin with care, savoring the simple act as he frees Hashirama’s hair, lays it out over Hashirama’s shoulders until he’s cloaked in the strands, thick and long enough to reach the futon when he’s sitting.

It’s such a small thing, objectively. Playing with a lover’s hair, enjoying grazing touches to their body, warm with the memory of the night they just spent together. But it’s a gutting, overwhelming thing as well, because this is _Hashirama_ , and it’s the culmination of every thought Madara has had for this man since he was a child. The new village rises around them, the Uchiha and the Senju are living together in peace, and the morning is warm and calm and sweet with the coming summer. Madara has the man he’s wanted for over a decade in his bed, smiling at him like he’s a wonder, and the curve of the future before them feels bright.

“Breakfast?” Hashirama asks gently, like he can see the direction of Madara's thoughts. He steals another kiss, sweet as honey, and rises carefully to his feet. Madara can't quite breathe as he watches him, that broad body bearing Madara's marks, dark skin and darker hair and the way the sunlight seems to touch him in particular, and he follows like a moth drawn to the light, heart too large for his chest to contain. Reaches out, and Hashirama sees, turns without hesitation. Madara curls an arm around his neck, pulls him down into his hold, and Hashirama laughs, moves with him easily. One of his hands settles in the small of Madara's back, and he kisses Madara's neck where the high tail of his hair leaves it bare.

“Didn’t you get enough of that last night?” he teases, and the laugh cracks out of Madara's throat.

“Never,” he says, and means it more than he has anything in a very long time.

Chuckling, Hashirama pulls back, sweeping his hair out from under the collar of his yukata and letting it spill down his back. Madara reaches for the obi before he can belt it, swats his fingers away and does it for him, just to have an excuse to hear Hashirama’s breath hitch when Madara's fingers slide over his stomach.

“Are you working this morning?” he asks, belting his own and letting Hashirama curl an arm through his as they leave the bedroom.

Hashirama shakes his head, leaning into Madara's shoulder with a contented hum. “Tōka and Hikaku volunteered to see to the plans for the walls,” he says, and when Madara slides an arm around his back to rest a hand on his hip, he casts him a warm smile.

“Now there's a terrifying pair,” Madara mutters, though he can't quite bring himself to mean it. Senju Tōka was the scourge of Uchiha on the battlefield, but if Hikaku, Izuna's best friend, can accept her presence, it likely means good things for the clan as a whole. Not that Madara would know that directly; he hasn’t been invited to the area where the Uchiha have settled, and he doubts he will be. They’ve found peace, and they remember all too well that Madara was the one trying to drag them back into a war. It stings, but—Madara can accept it.

Hashirama laughs, and the only sign that he’s seen Madara's grimmer thoughts is the light kiss he presses to his temple before he pulls away. Madara takes a seat at the table, content to watch him cook; of the two of them Hashirama is far less likely to burn the house down, as they’ve learned.

“The first class at the Academy is almost full,” Hashirama says. “The Sarutobi were happy to enroll all of their children, and most of the Uchiha did as well. I think Hikaku volunteered to take a team.”

Classes. Children now have classes, instead of immediately being pushed onto the battlefield. Madara smiles a little to himself, pressing his fingers into the warm wood of the tabletop. “I'm glad,” he says, just a little rough, and Hashirama smiles at him. He’s beautiful in the sunlight, Madara thinks, and his throat feels tight.

“Is your brother taking a team?” he asks, even though the words don’t come easily. He’s seen Tobirama with the children, though, Uchiha children included, and…Tobirama murdered Izuna, killed him. But he’s good with children, gentle with them. Madara doesn’t think he had ever seen Tobirama smile before he caught a glimpse of him with a gaggle of Uchiha kids, teaching them tricks with a kunai. Maybe, in light of that, Madara can wait and see how things unspool.

Hashirama leaves off slicing tofu at that, crosses to Madara and cups his face in his hands, kissing him, and when he pulls back his smile is brilliant, almost blinding. Thanks enough for trying, really, Madara thinks, helpless with self-directed amusement, gripping one of Hashirama’s hands.

“Yes,” Hashirama says, and folds to his knees in front of Madara, a smooth motion that makes Madara's breath tangle in his throat. He rests his cheek on Madara's knee, smiling up at him, and Madara swallows hard, tangling his fingers in Hashirama’s hair and stroking gently. After Izuna's death, he dreamed of bringing Hashirama to his knees, but—never like this.

Clearly, clearly, Madara was a fool.

“I thought you were making us breakfast,” he says, though it’s not quite a complaint, and tugs lightly at Hashirama’s hair.

Hashirama laughs, but he doesn’t lift his head, leans into Madara with a contented hum instead. “I'm comfortable,” he defends, and Madara cups the back of his head, breathes out and swallows and _wants_ , a nebulous and overwhelming desire for everything all at once.

He has so much, and there's so much potential in this moment. Old hurts, buried underneath, but this is a dream brought into reality, given vivid life all around them, and Madara can't remember the last time he was so content.

 _I love you_ , he wants to say, but the words won't come.

Hashirama’s expression shades to something softer, kinder, and he smiles like he knows. Bracing his hands on Madara's thighs, he rises, stealing another kiss on his way up, and says, “Do you want eggplant in the soup? I think we still have some left from last night.”

Madara pulls a face, letting Hashirama slip away from him. “Leave that disgusting poison out of my breakfast,” he retorts.

Hashirama grins, turns—

Staggers.

“Hashirama?” Madara says, concern rising, but it shifts into outright alarm when Hashirama’s knees buckle. Madara bolts to his feet, flings himself around the edge of the counter to catch Hashirama’s arm, because Hashirama _never_ falls, never wavers on his feet. Speaking of poison was a joke, but suddenly it’s all Madara can imagine, some enterprising assassin slipping in during the night, planning to kill the Senju Clan Head, and—

Hashirama’s outline blurs, fades, and Madara's breath tangles up around the absolute horror that crashes through his veins. He shouts, because Tobirama’s house is close, he should hear, he should _know_ , and Madara will never stop blaming him for Izuna's death but they both love Hashirama with all of their hearts. Tobirama will help, Tobirama will have a way to solve this.

Hashirama turns to him, eyes widening, and tries to lunge back just as Madara reaches him. stupid, self-sacrificing _idiot_ , Madara thinks fiercely, and grabs Hashirama’s wrist just as he starts disappearing. Solidity under his fingers, warm skin, and there's a jolt that rocks Madara like a misdirected Raiton but he doesn’t let go, hauls Hashirama up to him and—

They hit rocky, open ground with all the marks of a battlefield, a fight on a larger scale than Madara has ever encountered before. He strikes shoulder-first and rolls, coming up in a crouch with a Katon jutsu on the tip of his tongue, already reaching for a weapon he isn't carrying. Hashirama is behind him, still struggling against whatever daze is gripping him, trying to rise, and Madara thinks _You won't touch him_ before he even registers their surroundings.

There's a boy standing across from them, so similar to Izuna that Madara loses all of his breath in a rush. Uchiha, doubtless, with wide eyes and blood staining the corner of his mouth, a stab wound in his chest, a blond boy holding him up. _Exactly_ like Izuna, and Madara falters, hesitates, lets his fingers drop for just a moment.

And then, from behind him, there's a choked cry that cuts off sharply.

Madara spins, rises, lunging to reach Hashirama even as a figure hauls Hashirama off the ground, one arm wrapped around his throat, the other gripping Hashirama’s wrists. With a snarl, Madara leaps them, lands and lashes out in a blur, but the man twists around it deftly, steps back again, and says sharply, “Stop or I’ll break his neck!”

 _Damn it_. Madara aborts his lunge, pulls back even as he lets the Sharingan spin to life. All he needs is half a second, the barest hint of an opening, and then his bastard—

His own face. His own face, with an edge of madness that makes Madara's blood go cold. Madara falters, suddenly unsure, and Hashirama’s eyes widen. Clearly he recognizes the other Madara's voice, because he stills, asks half-strangled, “Madara?” like Madara isn't standing across from him.

The madman wearing Madara's face laughs, presses a hand to Hashirama’s chest where the yukata is falling open. A seal blooms beneath his fingertips, stark black against his bare skin, and Madara snarls a denial, leaps for him only to pull up short when Hashirama chokes, legs giving way again. He crumples to the ground with a sound of pain, shaking, and Madara tumbles down next to him, hauling him up, trying to make out the seal through a haze of panic. He’s already lost Izuna; if Hashirama disappears from the world as well, if Madara is left on his own in the shards of their dream—

“I’d forgotten how pathetic I used to be,” his double says, derisive, and takes a step towards them. Madara snarls at him, snaps one hand up and breathes out a gout of fire to hold him off even as he tries to pull Hashirama to his feet. The sense of Hashirama’s chakra is fading, though, sucked away by the seal, and Madara has seen so many shinobi die of chakra exhaustion, never, _ever_ thought Hashirama would suffer such a fate but can't fight down the surging panic.

“Who the hell are you?” he demands, and it breaks with panic in his mouth. Hashirama takes a ragged, raw breath, catches his arm, but his grip is weak and getting weaker.

“Don’t be an idiot,” his double retorts, and then glances down at Hashirama. His mouth curves, and he steps closer, even when Madara lurches backwards. Catches Hashirama’s shoulder, knocks Madara's punch aside with insulting ease, and grips Hashirama’s chin to tilt his face up. Dangerous, Madara's mind screams—he could snap Hashirama’s neck as simply as breathing. He goes tense, still, waiting for the attack, furious but helpless—

“Not ignoring me now, Hashirama?” the double purrs, leaning in close. Knocks away the blow Madara slashes out to strike his temple, and gives Madara a dark look as he pulls Hashirama up and right out of Madara's grasp. “You being dragged along was a mistake,” he says. “I need Hashirama’s Mokuton, but you aren’t required. I’ll send you back to your dimension momentarily, don’t fret.”

“ _Dimension_?” Madara repeats, even as the facts slot together. A separate dimension, and they've been pulled from one to the other, which means—

“And the past as well,” his double says, baring his teeth like it’s supposed to be a smile. “You should have plenty of time to adjust things in your favor with Hashirama’s absence.”

 _Absence_. The word lodges in Madara's chest like a knife, and he snarls again, drives an elbow at the other Madara's side, and—

“Madara!” A furious sound, a sharp sunburst chakra, and Tobirama drops a figure in familiar red armor on the battlefield between them in a flicker of blinding speed. Hashirama’s double rises, gaze lingering on Madara with something like regret for a long moment before he turns to face the double, chin lifting. “Madara, let them go,” he says. “Obito won't survive if you keep using his Mangekyō like this.”

“Sacrifices must be made,” the other Madara retorts, and his smirk is dark and cruel. “The brat shouldn’t have betrayed me.”

“You're the one who created him!” Hashirama’s double says, and it’s been so long since Madara truly saw his fury that witnessing it now is almost bewildering. “You turned a child into a weapon, Madara! If there was one thing I thought we agreed on, it was that.”

“For the sake of a better world,” Madara's double says grimly. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Hashirama.”

Madara sees his opening in the moment his double’s grip loosens, takes it without hesitation. He slams into him, flashes a hand up to breathe a gout of fire right in his face, and as the double goes reeling back with a furious cry Madara grabs Hashirama around the chest, hauls him back, and triggers a shunshin to give them room. The whirl of leaves disperses in a gust, leaves him facing—

“Let me help,” Tobirama says brusquely, crouching down, and the only reason Madara doesn’t take his head off is because Tobirama _knows_ seals. He doesn’t let go, though, clutches Hashirama to him as Tobirama presses a hand to his chest, and with a crack like glass shattering the seal breaks, shimmers out of existence.

Hashirama’s next breath finally comes easily, and Madara can't help the sound of desperate relief that’s pulled from him. He pulls Hashirama closer, like he’s daring the world to take him away, and demands, “What the hell is _happening_?”

Tobirama snorts, rising. He doesn’t offer Madara a hand, which is fine, because Madara refuses to leave Hashirama. “You're attempting to destroy the world,” he says snidely. “And now that you’ve run out of ways to fuel your White Zetsu soldiers, you're resorting to targeting versions of my brother from other dimensions, using an Uchiha boy you tortured and brainwashed into following your plan.”

Madara can't quite breath, can't think. _Destroying the world_ , he thinks, maybe a touch hysterically. He tried—he was fighting alone, trying to avenge Izuna, but Konoha is _good_ , Konoha gives him hope, proof of their dream—

“Tobirama,” Hashirama rasps, and his hand closes over Madara's. Madara laughs raggedly in relief, loosening his grip just enough for Hashirama to sit up on his own, and wraps an arm around his waist to steady him.

“Anija,” Tobirama returns, though there's a slant of amusement to his mouth. “Still defending him after all of this?” A sweep of his hand indicates the ruined land around them.

“Not him,” Hashirama says, with that same stalwart, unshakeable faith that let him take Madara's order to kill himself with a ready agreement. “Yours, maybe. But not this Madara.”

Tobirama scoffs. “The only difference between our universes is a different number of children in one of the smaller Senju families,” he says. “Madara chose very carefully, to be sure your Mokuton would be the same. If you want to be sure this doesn’t—”

“No,” Hashirama says, quiet, but it shivers with power even though his chakra is still wavering. Gripping Madara's hand, he carefully pushes to his feet, wavers, and it’s enough to drive Madara up after him, make him catch Hashirama’s elbow to steady him on his feet. Hashirama smiles at him, warm and kind and full of that burning faith Madara has never done a single thing to earn, and then says, “Your Madara didn’t account for us seeing the changes.”

Madara swallows, grits his teeth. It’s true—all he can see right now is the ruined land, the bodies on the ground. _I'm responsible_ , he thinks, and remembers the easy way his double gripped Hashirama’s throat, all too ready to snap his neck. The same neck Madara buried his face in just a few hours ago, kissed in the dead of night when they lay curled together.

Izuna is already dead, Madara has already accepted that, but beyond that Madara can't imagine what drove his double to _this_. If Tobirama says there's no other difference, though, if there _isn't_ —

“This is what _I_ do?” he asks, almost helplessly. Looks around them, at death and destruction, thinks of that battered boy who looks so much like Izuna, and the way Hashirama’s double looked at his double, so grim and tired, and—

“No,” Hashirama says, sliding his hand down to grip Madara's fingers. “No, Madara, this is him, not you. It will never be you.”

Madara wants to believe him more than anything.

( _For the sake of a better world_ , he thinks, and it’s siren song seductive, even now. _Horrifyingly_ tempting, except Madara knows why he _should_ resist. The reason is clinging to his hand, watching him with perfect faith, founded a village based on their dream even when Madara lost his way in the grip of grief. Hashirama believes it won't happen. Hashirama will divert him from that path long before things reach this point. Madara can keep moving, in light of that.)

Tobirama is still watching his brother, or the double of his brother, and there's something tired in his face, something that makes Madara think of Tobirama’s desperate cry on the battlefield when they thought Hashirama would kill himself at Madara's order. Something that makes him think of Tobirama crouching in the dirt, teaching Uchiha children kunai tricks. Hashirama and Tobirama rarely resemble each other, but—right now Madara thinks he can see shades of the similarity.

“Obito should be able to send you back to your dimension,” Tobirama says, and holds a hand out to them. “You need to leave before Madara tries to use your chakra again.”

A part of Madara wants to stay and fight, but it’s the part that has always been prone to bad ideas. He breathes out, nods, and lets Hashirama reach out to clasp his brother’s wrist. There's a flash of yellow light, and Madara carefully doesn’t think that this must be one of the last things Izuna ever saw, keeps his thoughts on the broken world around them.

They reappear near the base of a cliff, to a hail of kunai. Tobirama whirls in front of them, Suiton knocking the blades from the air, and snaps, “Stop!”

There's a ragged breath, and a grey-haired man staggers back a step, shoulders easing. “Nidaime-sama,” he says.

Tobirama nods, accepting that, and Madara doesn’t waist time wondering at the title. There's an Uchiha man slumped on the ground behind the other, chalk-pale and heavily scarred, Mangekyō burning in one eye and strange purple dojutsu blazing in the other. Madara takes a step forward, his first instinct to demand answers regarding that strange eye, with the urge to help close second, but he barely manages a pace before there's a snarl and the grey-haired man is in front of him, kunai up in clear threat.

“ _Tobirama,_ ” he says, suddenly far less respectful, with an edge of betrayal to it.

“Back off, Kakashi.” The scarred man looks from his friend to Madara, then to Hashirama, and pushes himself up a little straighter. “They’re the ones Madara pulled through.”

Kakashi hesitates, but when Tobirama raises a brow at him he reluctantly steps aside to let them through. Tobirama nods in thanks, then crosses to the scarred man’s side and drops to one knee. “Have you regained enough chakra?” he asks. “If my brother’s double lingers Madara will likely use him to give the White Zetsu clones more power.”

 _Obito won't survive if you keep using his Mangekyō like this_ , Hashirama’s double said, when he saw them. _You're the one who created him_ , too, and the thought settles into the pit of Madara's stomach like lead. He left his clan, when they turned to Hashirama to find peace, but—to injure one of them like this man has been, to think of one of them as a necessary sacrifice—

His double has fallen so far, and seeing the twisted mirror of him is _terrifying_.

“I should have enough,” Obito says, and presses a hand over his purple eye, breathing out. The air around them shivers, bleeds off power in a slow slide that makes Madara's bones itch, and Obito lifts a hand. Slowly, carefully, the air warps in a spiral, and he takes a wet breath, gritting his teeth even as Kakashi grips his shoulder tightly.

“Go,” he tells them, and then looks to Madara, expression twisting. Hate, Madara recognizes in that look, and has to swallow hard. He holds that burning gaze, not sure what he can possibly say, but wanting to say _something_.

Apparently the look is enough, because Obito nods one, short and brusque. “Go,” he says again. “And if you haven’t learned a damn thing from all this, or you decide to take notes on it, I’ll jump across dimensions myself to kick your ass.”

“I’d expect you to,” Madara says hoarsely, and Hashirama grips his wrist, pulls him on with a nod to Obito. The warping space feels like a wash of cool air, like a step through water, and then they're out the other side and falling.

Hashirama’s hand is in his, and Madara grips it desperately and doesn’t even think of letting go.


End file.
